


red sky in morning, sailor's warning

by peppermintcas



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: 2.14 coda, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-10
Updated: 2015-03-10
Packaged: 2018-03-17 03:46:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3514181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peppermintcas/pseuds/peppermintcas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>First light comes far too quickly for comfort, painting the horizon a bloody red. "A good sign," Lexa says. She is tossing a spear up and down, up and down, to the rhythm of their marching feet. "Red sunrise makes for an auspicious battle."</p>
            </blockquote>





	red sky in morning, sailor's warning

**Author's Note:**

> Set right after 2.14, _Bodyguard of Lies_. I haven't gotten around to watching 2.15 yet, but I heard what happens, so let's pretend for the sake of my sanity that everything is happy and not-betrayal and cute.

Torches flicker, yellow and orange and red, escorting Clarke to Lexa's tent. It's nearing dawn; their army will attack soon, and then their fragile peace will be shattered, the quiet that lays still over the camp broken with war cries and chants. In less than an hour, perhaps two, many of the warriors sleeping in their tents will be dead—shot and speared and gassed. Clarke tries not to think about it. It doesn't work, of course. It never does.

Lexa is bent over a low table, studying maps, with Indra and another warrior that Clarke doesn't know, when she enters: her armor is half-buckled, her hair unbraided. She looks younger likes this, without the symbols that mark her as Commander. More like the girl she really is. She turns at Clarke's entrance, the rustle of the tent flap. Her eyes are unpainted, and they soften when they see her. 

"Leave us for now," she says, and Indra and the warrior brush past, sparing Clarke only cursory glances. 

"Hey," Clarke says. She tucks her hands in her pockets, then immediately feels foolish; she drops her arms to her sides instead. "I didn't mean to interrupt—"

"No, no," Lexa assures her. "It's alright. Just last-minute review. We still have time before the attack; I can call them back later.”

"Did you change anything?" Clarke approaches the table, scanning the maps. "You should have woken me—"

"Of course not," Lexa says, closer than she realized. A hand settles at the small of her back, tentatively. "It's a little late for that."

"I still wish Octavia would let me reassign her," Clarke sighs, brushing her hand over the rough parchment. "Bellamy will kill me if she gets hurt."

"Let Octavia fend for herself," Lexa tells her. "She's a warrior, and Indra's second. She's well-trained. She'll be fine."

"I still worry."

A lingering silence; Clarke chances a glance towards Lexa to find her gazing back. She can't bring herself to break the quiet that's fallen over them both, but Lexa exhales, ducking her head. Clarke laughs. "Come here," she says, tugging at Lexa's unbuckled shoulder pads, pulling her close. Lexa allows her. "You look different without your armor and your paint and everything.”

"It takes too long to properly put on in the morning, and it's rather stifling," Lexa murmurs. "I don't bother until the last possible second."

Clarke snaps the buckle into place over Lexa's chest, the  _click_  loud in the quiet of the tent. Lexa is watching her. Her hair falls in unbound tangles, framing her face; her eyes stray to Clarke's hands, her eyes, her lips. "I don't blame you," Clarke tells Lexa's chest, pulling at the studded body armor. Her arms are wrapped around Lexa's waist, fumbling for the straps. "This shit is heavy."

Lexa laughs. "You get used to it. I've worn armor since I was a child, since I was called on to become Commander."

"Oh?" Clarke asks. She smooths her hands over the roughness of the vest, her hands lingering on Lexa's waist. "How old were you?"

"The Commander's spirit needs to be found as soon as possible," Lexa says. She touches Clarke's hand, fingers trailing on her palm, on her wrist. "I was—seven, perhaps. Maybe eight."

Clarke tightens her hand on Lexa's, a brief acknowledgement, and then pulls away. "Here, sit—somewhere," Clarke says. She takes what looks like a jar of black dust, holding it up to the lamplight. "Is this what you use for your eyes?"

"Yes," Lexa says. She glances around and shrugs, then folds away a couple of maps, clearing a space on the table. "There's a bowl of water next to the paint. You have to mix it. Not too much water, though."

Clarke pulls the bowl towards her, careful not to spill any water on the maps, and pries open the jar. Lexa settles herself on the table, fingers working through her hair, tying it back. "Careful," she says, watching Clarke dip her fingers into the dust. "More paint—yes, that's enough—and then just touch the surface of the water. A little bit does it."

Clarke touches her thumb and index finger together, watching the paint smear, and turns to Lexa. "Close your eyes?" she asks, and the Commander obliges. She tips her head up, hands braced at the edge of the table, as Clarke steps in between her legs, gently smears the paint over her eyelids. "All the way up to the eyebrow," she instructs, softly. "More water."

Clarke obeys. "Hold still," she says, and smears the paint in a circle around Lexa's eyes. The tent is quiet around them, the peace settling into the motion of Clarke's fingers, the set of Lexa's shoulders. If she doesn't think, Clarke can almost fool herself into thinking they aren't fighting a war. That there isn't a chance that they both might die today.

Almost.

Clarke slides her clean, unpainted hand around the nape of Lexa's neck, feeling the other girl sigh, leaning into her touch. She touches just below Lexa's temple, smears paint there. Back to the hairline, on each side of the bridge of Lexa’s nose, covering the freckles there; thicker under her eyes, on her eyelids. Clarke works in a first coat, then a lighter second, cupping Lexa's cheek in her hand, smoothing down paint with her thumb. She can feel Lexa's eyelashes flutter against her hand, the gentle brush of her eyes opening. They're almost level like this—their eyes are at the same height. Clarke can see every freckle on Lexa's nose, could pick out all the colors of her eyes.

"We're going to war," Lexa says. Her voice is soft, matter-of-fact.

"Yes," Clarke says. She swallows. "Yes, we are."

They stare at each other. The tent is dim, the lamp just enough to illuminate the maps and not much else; in the distance, the sky turns gray with dawn.

Clarke leans forward.

\--

First light comes far too quickly for comfort, painting the horizon a bloody red. "A good sign," Lexa says. She is tossing a spear up and down, up and down, to the rhythm of their marching feet. "Red sunrise makes for an auspicious battle."

Clarke glances up towards the sky. "Sailors used to have a saying for that," she remarks. "Red sky at night, sailor's delight; red sky in morning, sailor's warning. I think. I’ve forgotten it by now." Her mouth twists in a wry grin. “It’s not like there were sailors on the Ark.”

"Well, then," Lexa says, a hint of humor in her voice, "let’s hope those sailors, wherever they are, were wrong, yes?" She catches her spear in one hand and reaches out with the other to help Clarke over a small rise. Warriors stream around them, the faster and stronger pushing to the front, eager for glory. "We're as ready as we'll ever be, Clarke. We don't truly need omens."

They stand at the top of the hill, silhouetted against the budding dawn. Their hands are still linked; Clarke inhales, and twines their fingers together. "Okay," she whispers, and lets herself be led into battle, into the bloody dawn.


End file.
